Mother and Child
By Calmcarl
- 348 reads
The woman walked through the throng with ease, carefully anticipating her next manoeuvre as the people stopped to look at the goods on sale. She knew where she was going, to the end of the lane first, for fruit from Tom's, he wasn't the cheapest but his stuff was fresh and she'd been using him for years, always happy to see him, he seemed glad to see her. From there, back slowly, checking all the clothes stalls briefly for new gear. As she walked she looked across the heads of African ladies in their vibrant scarves, skinheads with tattoos, blue and pink rinses on ladies older than her, young girls with their hair just so, young men with anger on their faces, others cocksure with a glint in their eye and a smirk on their faces, (some familiar ladies nodded to her as they passed, acknowledging the ritual of Saturday morning in the market). Now the egg stall for a dozen no1 size before moving on to the fish stall for crab-sticks and prawns and another friendly face asking how she's been, and how's the nipper? As she went to answer she looked down.
The boy held a bag in one hand and watched his mother turn into the lane, she walked quickly and he tried to stay behind her, shoes to the right, green baize to the left, then legs in jeans, in shorts, in skirts, feet in trainers, shoes, sandals, colours flashed by as he tried to keep up, searching ahead for the green skirt he knew well enough, but couldn't see. Someone trod on his toe and someone banged into his back as he stopped to search behind, left, right, ahead again for his mum.
The woman looked left, right, behind, ahead but this time she saw no faces, hairdos or hats, now she saw belts, beer bellies, pierced belly buttons, jeans and T-shirts, a mother's hand wrapped tight around a child's wrist, her eye trained on where his head would be, should be, but she only saw other peoples kids. Hands full of shopping, she called his name and listened like a mother in a herd for 'her cry' the one wail above all others, but she heard nothing except the usual market cries.
Gone.
Everyone heard the boy's cry. The word "Mummy!" cutting through appeals for the crowd to buy batteries, socks and strawberries. Three stalls were left unmanned as the traders moved towards the already sobbing child, and, after the immediate area was searched, the boy was put on the shoulders of a fruit-seller and taken through the middle of the market towards the sarsaparilla stall, where all lost children go.
"Try the sarsaparilla stall!" Said three people at once to the ashen-faces woman in the green skirt as she stood still and looked eight ways at once. Recognition crossed her face and at once she moved through the crowd she raced past stalls to the middle of the market and saw her boy red-eyed and smiling as the drink was passed into his hands.
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